


The Greatest Potter in Emelan

by que_sera



Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Gen, POV Outsider, Post-Series, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-21
Updated: 2008-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1639781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/que_sera/pseuds/que_sera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A craftsmage encounters the members of the circle at four very different points in their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Greatest Potter in Emelan

**Author's Note:**

> Written for MamaDeb

 

 

i. Emelan

In Yanjing, Tanizaki Senichi was famous for porcelain. Eggshell white and all but translucent, his delicately painted tea sets could only be found in the most expensive of households, and it was said that once a housemaid committed suicide rather than admit she had cracked one of his cups. In the south, Chiocus Krota was prized above all others, the black figures on his red jars and bowls depicting scenes so lifelike that they were only half–jokingly rumored to move when their owner’s back was turned. But if asked, each of these famed men would admit that the best potter in the world lived in Emelan. 

His name was Amendar Emmandra, and no one knew what country or city he had originally called home. He appeared only twice a year, at the high festivals in Summersea, and Traders and merchants traveled hundreds of miles to see the mysterious figure clothed and veiled in draping silks display this year’s work in his tiny, exclusive tent. His glazes never ran or separated into impure colors, his pieces never cracked in the kiln, and his work never repeated itself. It was as much a thrill to see what style of ceramics he had chosen to work his particular craftsmanship upon this year as it was to see the pieces themselves. No other man, people told each other with awe, could possibly have mastered the techniques of so many lands and still created a style uniquely his own. His skill was so great that the spells he built into every piece – for protection, health, harmony in the home – sometimes hardly merited a mention in the discussion of his work. 

All other weeks of the year, a small permanent shop made steady business about halfway down the potters’ stalls in the much–reduced everyday market. Its proprietor was a small man, unremarkable in appearance or stature, who specialized in creating sturdy, serviceable dishes out of plain local clay. They were priced a little above the average going rate for such items, but, as the local women told each other knowledgeably, it was a price well paid for their durability. 

In fact, although none of these wives ever appeared to notice, a dish bought from the man known to one and all as Yorys would never break, no matter the abuse given it. Foods stored in them tended to last much longer without spoiling, and medicines served in a Yorys–crafted clay mug always seemed more effective than medicines taken otherwise. If the dishes had been more expensive, perhaps, or less utterly common in appearance, they might have raised closer scrutiny – but they were not, and the semi–mystical properties of Yorys–dishes became instead stories everyone knew and no one questioned. A good mage could have told them the reason why, but very few mages were in the market both for extravagantly expensive decorative objects and sturdy, functional dishes that would never break. 

ii. gathering clay – Tris 

Yorys disembarked at Ninver in Capchen with a distinct feeling of relief. He never enjoyed sea travel, but if the Trader caravan that had passed through Summersea last winter had been correct about the origin of its goods, the clay he found here would more than make his lingering sensation of nausea worth it.

And the Traders had been correct, he realized as he stepped away from the docks and closer to the river that poured out into the Pebbled Sea just east of the port city of Ninver. The clay sang to him, even from this distance, buried as it was along the banks of the great river. If he wanted, he could follow the tug of his magic straight to it, without stopping for anyone to show him the way.

For a moment he was tempted to do just that, but fatigue and lingering sickness convinced him that it would be better to find lodging for the night, before he fell over due to lack of food and sleep. The clay he had traveled so long for would still be there in the morning.

The next dawn saw him fully dressed and headed for the river, unable to wait even for the mistress of the inn to provide breakfast for her lodger. The clay had called to him in his dreams, showing him the forms and shapes that longed to be brought out of the malleable material. He bought breakfast at a market stand just as it opened before making his way straight for the riverbank. He allowed himself a moment of pardonable pride. Forty–six years of age, and he could still rise with the dawn with hardly an ache for his trouble.

Never needing a guide, he followed the call of his magic straight to the place where he knew the largest deposits would be. He was so focused on his goal that when he climbed the last small hill before the long slope to the river and came across another human being just over the crest, he nearly tripped over her. 

As it was, he just managed to stop himself, lurching to the side before his foot could come in contact with the person’s side. As he straightened up, he saw that his near–victim was a little girl. She had been lying on her stomach, reading in the light of a sun that was just now fully over the horizon, but now she sat up and glared at him furiously. He blinked, a little taken aback. She was plump, with red hair and glasses, but Yorys did not think he had ever seen such undisguised hostility before from one so young.

"You should watch where you’re going," she snapped at him, gathering up her book as if he might try and take it from her. As she moved, he guessed her age to be about ten. He smiled, hoping to placate her.

"I apologize. I didn’t expect to see anyone else so early."

Her entire body stiffened, anger and resentment causing her eyes to flash behind her spectacles. "And who are you to say where I should be? You’re no dedicate, and I don’t have to stay on Temple grounds!"

Yorys dug around in his memory, and finally dredged up the knowledge that there was a Living Circle Temple located somewhere outside Ninver. This girl must be one of the students. Looking up and around, he saw what had to be the Temple walls just to the north of their position. "I never said you did," he answered, still endeavoring to be polite. When the girl only continued to glare, arms wrapped protectively around her book, he shrugged his shoulders and continued down to the river. No sense in arguing with someone this early in the morning. 

Once on the shore, he instantly took off his shoes and stood for a moment in the damp mud, still cold from the night’s chill. He sighed and let his focus expand, locating every pocket of clay for hundreds of yards around his position. A potter without his ambient ability with clay would have had to dig each deposit out. While he had done so also during his apprenticeship, he had other methods now. Closing his eyes, he centered himself, and began to call the clay towards him.

"What are you doing?"

The words broke his concentration just as he felt the clay respond, and he nearly jumped. The girl had approached him so silently he hadn’t noticed her until she spoke. She stood a prudent distance away from him, her book laid carefully at her side, curiosity warring with the vestiges of hostility in her gaze. She glared again as he turned towards her, but to Yorys, who had seen the full force of her gaze just minutes earlier, the action seemed to be instinctive rather than heartfelt. Perversely, he softened towards her, just a little. In his experience, most children that young were hostile towards adults for a reason.

"Looking for clay," he answered. 

The girl stiffened. "If you’re going to make fun of me, don’t bother to answer," she accused, her eyes like ice. For a moment, Yorys actually felt colder. "Your eyes were shut. You weren’t looking for anything at all. And besides," she continued before Yorys could even begin to think of explaining his rather unique magic to her, "you’re not even standing in the right spot. The clay’s over there."

She pointed – directly at the place he had just identified as containing the largest concentration of the clay he had come for. He looked at her again, surprised, but he could sense nothing of his clay–magic in her. "How did you know that?" he asked, genuinely curious, and was mostly unsurprised when her expression closed off instantly. "You see, I have magic with clay, and that’s just where it is. Maybe you have a touch of magic yourself."

He was unprepared for the instantaneous, vicious comeback. The wind picked up violently, whipping around them both as she screamed, "I _hate_ magic! I don’t have _any_ , and I don’t think much of your skills if you think I have!"

Her face livid, her hair whipping in the sudden wind, the girl turned and fled. 

Yorys stood there for a moment, eyebrows still raised in surprise. What had he said to cause such a violent reaction? The wind stopped then, and he saw that in her flight, the girl had left her book behind. 

He stared at it, trying to decide. The way she was clutching the thing earlier, she would certainly notice it was gone sooner rather than later. There was really no need for him to go after her. 

The book was already under his arm as he completed that thought, and he turned in the direction in which she had fled. Sometimes he just didn’t know what was good for him.

The girl returned before he had gone twenty yards. She glared at him in a manner he was beginning to get used to. "That’s mine," she said flatly.

He should have just handed the book over. Instead, he said, "You don’t like it here, do you?"

Her mouth opened a bit in surprise, then snapped shut. "Not that it’s any of your business, but they hate me, if you _must_ know," she ground out. "Give me my book."

Yorys continued to look at her, thinking hard. Comforting had never been his strong suit. Neither were words.

"See this clay," he began, and hurried on before the look of astonishment on her face could transform into rage. "I’ve come a long way to get it, and it means quite a lot to me. But I can’t use it just the way it is. I need to add ash, and glass, and other clay before it can really do what it’s supposed to do."

He continued in a rush to keep her from speaking. "So you haven’t found the right mix yet. This place isn’t it. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist."

She continued to stare at him, her face telling him clearly what she thought of his metaphor. "It doesn’t for me." Apparently tired of waiting, she snatched the text from his hand and turned on her heel to walk back to the Temple. The grim experience in her voice kept him from calling her back. 

iii. firing – Daja 

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

Yorys turned from the shelves where he had been checking inventory at the young–sounding voice coming from the front of his shop. Entering the front room, he saw his assumption had been correct – a girl of perhaps twelve years of age stood in front of him, dressed in Trader–style tunic and leggings. She looked big and capable, carrying a package easily in the hand that did not clasp a Trader’s long ebony staff. He frowned at the puzzle. She did not look near old enough to be a _daka_ , and what would a Trader’s caravan be doing in Summersea at this time of the year, so far from one of the festivals?

The girl solved his problem of what to say by speaking first. "Are you Yorys?" she asked. At his confirmation, she offered the package to him. "Frostpine asked me to deliver this to you."

With that, the picture became much more clear. He had heard Frostpine had taken a young girl as an apprentice. How a Trader had come to be apprenticed to a blacksmith he had no idea, but he was more than old enough to know he didn’t need to know. Besides, he had been waiting for this particular package with no small amount of eagerness, so his brain was quite happy to pass over the mystery of its bearer for the reality of its presence. 

He took the package from her eagerly, half–turning away before realizing that he probably should say something. "Tell Frostpine he has my thanks," he offered, eyes still focused on the object in his hands.

The girl shifted her grip on her staff. "Actually," she said, her voice diffident but calm, "I was hoping you could tell me how you’re planning on using this. Frostpine allowed me to watch the spell placement, and I assisted with the forging, but he never did say why we were doing it."

Surprised, Yorys looked up at the girl for the first time, and found a gaze that emanated steadiness and calm. She appeared genuinely curious, and Yorys found himself responding.

"Of course. Follow me to the back."

Once in his workroom, the girl looked around with undisguised curiosity. Several pieces in various stages of the drying process lay on shelves around the room, and more were covered in damp cloths so as to retain their flexibility until he finished them. She refocused her attention when he opened the package, pulling out long, thick coils of metal wire. 

"I’m a potter," he answered to the obvious question in her gaze, "and so in order to finish my work, I have to fire it, which takes great heat over an extended period of time. These wires will hold heat from the fire and help speed the process, as well as make it more controllable."

He saw her eyes widen in comprehension. "Which is why Frostpine spelled them to hold an even heat."

"Yes."

Satisfied, her eyes once more lingered on the more completed forms on the shelves nearest her. "They seem so fragile when they’re dry," she observed. "It’s hard to believe they can become something so durable."

"That’s what the fire does. The forms must be completely dry, and then they can be put in the fire and transformed. After that, they’re quite strong. Sometimes it seems to me like a rebirth." He stopped and laughed at himself, rambling like this to a stranger. He must be getting old. "No doubt you find that silly."

"Reborn through fire?" Out of the corner of his eye, Yorys saw her rubbing the bright cap of her staff. He could see the Trader designs upon it, which he knew were greatly symbolic in some way. From this distance, he could not see the designs themselves. "No. That doesn’t sound silly to me at all."

iv. wedging – Briar 

The late spring day was fine, and for once without rain, so Yorys had moved his portable kick–wheel and several large lumps of fresh clay outside. He worked steadily, slamming the clay against the circular surface again and again to get it ready to work with, then building up each cup and bowl as the wheel spun, his sure hands causing the clay to ripple in and out at his command before placing the finished project on a small shelf. 

He was busy working another lump of clay into a solid mug when a careless voice with more than a hint of street drawl rang out from somewhere ahead of him. He looked up to see a boy of about eighteen with a devil–may–care grin on his face approaching his shop, a giggling girl of about the same age on his arm. "Master Yorys," he called out, his green eyes sparking with mischief, "This fine lady happens to have misplaced one of your almost as fine mugs" – here he stopped to dodge as the lady in question aimed a mock–outraged swat at him – "and I have it on good authority that you would never sell for less than a copper crescent, and I am here to prove her wrong."

Yorys lifted an eyebrow without pausing the steady motion of his wheel. "Your sources are fortunately correct, young master," he said, a tinge of humor escaping into his voice. "I could not dream of selling for so little."

"So you say," he returned, "but I’m sure that for the good of this little woman, you would never give up so easily."

Yorys lifted the completed piece carefully onto the shelf, then settled back on his stool, allowing himself a few moments of banter as a well–deserved break. The young man was refreshingly intelligent, shameless in his flirtation, and slipped into street cant at any opportunity that would amuse his companion. Yorys was outright enjoying himself when the bell from the inn behind his shop began to ring the lunch hour, loud and clear as the temple bells.

As if a switch had been thrown, the laughing young man’s face closed, replaced by something much older and much more grim. His hands gripped the shelf displaying completed wares convulsively, and as he stared into Yorys’ face he had no doubt that the younger man was seeing something else entirely.

"Briar," his female companion said, tugging at his arm, "Briar. What’s wrong?" The boy flinched violently from her touch, and she stepped back, half–offended, half–frightened. "Well. If you’re going to be like that, then I’m going home." She glanced behind her frequently as she left, but the boy – Briar – did not seem to even notice her departure.

Behind him, the bell stopped ringing. 

A few minutes later, Briar came to himself again. Yorys watched as the terrible expression in his eyes faded into something faintly resembling the cheerful young man he had presented a few moments before. He released his death grip of the table and looked around, seemingly unperturbed to find himself alone. 

"She decided she had better go home," Yorys offered, and was unsurprised when the boy merely nodded. He picked up another clay ball and began to wedge it, throwing it against the surface of his wheel.

"What do you do that for?" The voice was almost, but not quite, the Briar that had first approached his shop. He had expected the boy to leave, but from the slight rasp still in his voice, he guessed that Briar wasn’t feeling quite steady enough to go just yet.

"There are air bubbles," he explained, his hands never stopping their steady movement, "hidden in the clay. If they aren’t worked out, the piece will explode in the kiln."

The boy stiffened almost imperceptibly, and Yorys wondered for a moment if he was going back into his fit. Then he asked, "You can’t see them or nothing? Why do they do that?"

"The pockets of air are beneath the surface. In the fire, the air expands and shatters the clay. One explosion can take out every other piece around it."

Briar flinched noticeably this time. "I just need this," he said, his voice tight. Taking the mug he had pretended to bargain about in a grip that quickly began turning his knuckles white, he threw a copper crescent on Yorys’ workbench and walked away. 

v. glazing – Sandry 

Yorys knew he was in trouble the instant Lady Sandrilene fa Toren, rumored heir to the Duke of Emelan, great mage and recent purchaser of a very expensive detailed vase of Amendar Emmendra’s design, stepped into his little shop on potter’s row. His heart sank as she moved lightly through the shelves of clay pots and dishes, trailing a finger here, crouching down to look more closely there.

"The spellwork on these pieces is quite impressive," she said, casually, with her back still turned to him, as if she were not threatening his very way of life with her mere presence here. "The carvings on the lip here, and the very shape of the form here – preservation, durability, and healing, am I correct?"

He inclined his head, an awful feeling of resignation coming up to almost choke his throat. "I should have known a little glazing wouldn’t fool you, my lady," he said softly, and even with his head down he felt the force of her brilliant smile. 

"No," she said simply. "I’ve never been one to be fooled by a bit of embroidery." 

Something in her voice made him look up. He was met with a brilliant smile that was both conspiratorial and understanding. "What I really need, though, are a few sets of dishes for my family."

vi. Number Six, Cheeseman Street

The three–story house at Number Six, Cheeseman Street held many strange and marvelous things, the greatest of which were its three (and often four) occupants. Its neighbors quickly became accustomed to the strange parade of guests, the purchases from markets that were usually unidentifiable but unmistakably magical, the yelling, the actual _dragon_ that flew through windows and disrupted anything and everything in a three–block radius – or they moved. Those that stayed learned that living near three powerful mages had advantages that (almost) compensated for the drawbacks, and the gossip–mongers quickly learned that the foster–siblings did indeed form a genuine, if odd, family. They were friendly, as well, and a few braver women in the neighborhood became semi–regular visitors at the house of three mages.

"They always have the most intriguing variety of foods," said one of these to another, "and of course the house is always spotless. I wish my Lainie were so thorough.

"But what I’ll never understand," she continued, "is why they insist on eating from those utterly common dishes. Oh, they’re made well enough, but look at their house! The three of them are easily wealthy enough to afford something with, well, a little more _class_."

Her companion shook her head and said it was a shame. Especially, she said, when they had managed to afford a small vase crafted by the inimitable Amendar Emmendra – which stood, as if in a place of honor, on a shelf just above the stacks of serviceable, perfectly functional clay dishes that would never break. 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Greatest Potter in Emelan by que_sera](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5428565) by [trickywooesq](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickywooesq/pseuds/trickywooesq)




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